


Sleepwalk

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 01:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: Kurt hasn't slept-walk in years.





	Sleepwalk

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

Kurt hadn't slept-walk in years.  He'd outgrown the habit over time, resulting in far fewer stomach-turning stumbles down the stairs and other painful accidents.  There wasn't a moment when he noticed the complete extinction of the habit; between one year and the next, he simply forgot that it had ever happened regularly at all.

Until he transferred to Dalton and the cumulative stresses of being at a new school, being away from his family, and still living under the cloud of Karofsky-induced anxiety (and, admittedly, Blaine-induced frustration) lured him out from under his comfortable sheets and dumped him groggily at an exciting new destination.  Thankfully, none of the prefects that patrolled the halls shortly before and after midnight had noticed his unexpected nightly sojourns; he didn't even want to think about having to explain it to them.

It was bad enough that he'd transferred halfway through the year and stuck out like a sore thumb at Dalton; he didn't want to add sleep-walker to his list of oddities as well.

So he dragged himself off the cozy, overstuffed armchair in one of the main lounges and made his way back to his room, locking the door firmly behind himself.  He rubbed the ache from his forehead and padded silently out of the kitchens and up the stairs to the comforting sanctuary of his covers.  He cursed quietly under his breath as he eased his foot away from the table-leg that he'd stubbed it against and scurried back the way that he'd come.  He ignored the flush of embarrassment that crept up his neck as he lay in bed for hours after, restless and frustrated, seeking sleep that wouldn't come.

On one particularly frigid February night, only a week before Valentine's day, he couldn't sleep at all.  Part of it was the added and exquisitely unpleasant stress of an upcoming history test; another part was the freezing (and stalwart) temperature of Dalton's rooms.  Even nestled firmly under his covers wearing his coziest pajamas, he felt chilled to the bone, curled in on himself and waiting for sleep to come.  It was already after midnight and the exhaustion was pressing down on his eyelids until he ached to sleep, a low whine of frustration creeping out of his throat as he rolled onto his back and splayed his arms to either side.

Useless.  Utterly, completely useless.

Pushing the covers aside, he cast a single jealous look at Pavarotti, head tucked under a wing as he snoozed, before gathering his wits about him and standing.

There had to be a solution and, if nothing else, he knew exactly who might have one.  The same person who, coincidentally, always carried tiny packs of tissues around in case someone unexpectedly needed one, or juice boxes for the same reason.  The same person who never minded helping out after class for an impromptu tutoring session with a friend, a peer, a stranger over Mario Cart.  The same person who ate his salads with surprising delicacy and studied for six hours alone in the library, uninterrupted, and liked to climb on furniture and sing in the courtyard when no one was around to annoy (listen, enjoy, appreciate, Kurt substituted automatically, because even the ridiculously jaunty tunes that he belted out were always inexplicably charming).

No, there had to be a solution - a hidden thermostat or insulating technique or something - and Blaine would have it.

Too tired to second-guess himself, Kurt shambled out of his room after a cursory glance to make sure that everything was still in place (ridiculous to think otherwise, of course; it wasn't like he had a room mate to disturb it, but he still couldn't trust that things went undisturbed at Dalton).  The hallways were empty, and Blaine's dorm wasn't far, but Kurt still hurried to close the distance between them.

The sight that greeted him after three quiet knocks on the door was unexpectedly - well, adorable.

Blaine's hair was tussled and gel-free, a shocking contrast even to his usual laid-back after-school demeanor.  Kurt could think of no other description for it but bed-head, and the combination of Blaine in Dalton-patterned pajamas (navy-blue with red piping; there was even a bright-red insignia emblazoned over one breast pocket) and squinty-eyed, soft-mouthed wonder temporarily short-circuited Kurt's brain as he froze in place.

"Kurt?" Blaine asked, testing the word, a sort of gentle hesitance in his tone as though he half-expected Kurt to disappear.  When he didn't, he frowned, confusion mingling with concern as he asked, "What are you doing here?  Did something happen?"

"No," Kurt said, voice breathier than he intended - and far too painfully aware that Blaine had a room mate and he was the world's biggest idiot, the world's biggest idiot for thinking that he could just barge into Blaine's room at one in the morning and ask him for advice because he was cold - and words catching in his throat as he stuttered over a few stupid syllables, unnecessary, perfunctory things.

Blaine waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts, at last clearing his throat gently to cut off Kurt's explanation about why he needed to buy Pavarotti a Burberry cover.  "Do you want to come in?  Nate's out for the night - his brother's in town, so they're at his parents'."

"I'd love to," Kurt said, and again his voice went breathy on him without his permission before he mustered a polite-enough smile and followed Blaine inside.

And was immediately struck by the sheer Blaineness of the room, in spite of Nate's equal and obvious presence on the far side, various lacrosse paraphernalia crammed into one corner.  There were books stacked on Blaine's desk and clothes scattered in neat piles around the floor and even a gym bag with a pair of wrestling gloves sticking out of it.  Intrigued, Kurt wandered around Blaine's half of the room unthinkingly as Blaine ambled over to his own bed and sat down on it.

"So, this is my room," he said, his voice still rumbling with sleep as he held out an arm in vague acknowledgement.  "It's kind of a mess, but that's mostly Nate's fault." Yawning, he added, "D'you wanna sit down or watch a movie?  We could just ... talk.  If you want.  I don't mind talking."  He crossed his legs to demonstrate his eagerness to listen, his soft smile luring Kurt in as he let out a slow sigh.

It was hard to feel bad for imposing when Blaine was so inviting.  And everything about Blaine's posture suggested ease, as if Kurt's presence wasn't at all distracting.  Kurt suspected that Blaine would have agreed to come down to the basketball court and play for a few hours if Kurt had asked; he seemed caught in that compliant state between sleep and full consciousness that made Kurt want to gather him protectively in his arms until they both fell asleep.

Which was absurd and absolutely not platonic, Kurt reminded himself sternly, even though the ache was still deep in his chest when he forced his gaze on the gym bag instead.  It wasn't strictly romantic, either, but anything that could be construed as such between them was off-limits.  Blaine would come to him on his own terms or he wouldn't, but Kurt wasn't going to take advantage of him in his sleepy state.  He wouldn't.

"What are these?" he asked instead, reaching down to pick up one of the boxing gloves.  He knew what they were, but it seemed necessary to ask, especially given the way Blaine's shoulders hunched inward a little.  An unreadable expression settled over his face for a moment before it melted back into a wry smile; Kurt resisted the urge to ask what that was about when Blaine answered.

"Boxing gloves," he said, very clearly, albeit still in that same low register as before.

"I didn't know you boxed," Kurt mused.

"I don't do it often," Blaine replied.

Kurt didn't press him for more answers as he let his attention wander over the room, falling on various objects as he speculated about their importance before confirming it with Blaine.

"Your room's nice," he said at last, belatedly realizing that he was sitting on the bed, too, his legs crossed as he flipped through a very worn, and clearly very well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice.  "Although I refuse to believe that you actually enjoyed reading Hamlet."

"It's a classic," Blaine defended, reaching over to reclaim the book before Kurt could read any of the notes that he'd made in the margins.  Interesting.  He'd have to press that point another day, because the sudden, electrifying brush of Blaine's fingers against his own rendered him breathless for a moment before he heaved in a stuttered breath and blurted out, "I really should be going, I didn't mean to stay so long--"

"Don't go."  Soft, imploring.  Almost pouty.  "You can ... I mean, Nate's not around, and I don't mind ... the dorm's are kind of cold tonight.  It'd be like a sleepover."

"A sleepover," Kurt said, testing out the words, because the last time they'd had any sort of sleepover his heart had remained firmly lodged in his throat with all of the things that he had wanted - but hadn't been able - to say.  The idea of spending the entire night in Blaine's presence was enough to short-circuit his brain again, and he didn't even notice Blaine shuffle back until he was flopping down on the pillows and letting out a gusty sigh, nodding against the fabric.

"Uh huh," he agreed, as if he hadn't suggested the idea mere seconds ago, patting the space under the covers beside himself invitingly.  "C'mon, it's cold."

Maybe the cold had successfully frozen his brain, because between one moment and the next Kurt was edging very gingerly onto the bed beside Blaine, breath catching in his chest as Blaine leaned over to flick off the lamp and letting out another slow sigh of contentment.  Judging by the soft snores that tapered at the end of each breath a moment later, Blaine was asleep, and Kurt struggled to keep a laugh from bubbling out of his chest at the sound.

Somehow, tucked in the warm cocoon created by their combined body heat under the covers, he found sleep, or sleep found him, and for the first time since coming to Dalton he didn't worry at all about where he might wake up.

With Blaine by his side, warm and trusting and perfect, he knew exactly where he wanted to be.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


End file.
